The Secret Mistress (21 page)

Angeline bent her legs at the knee and rested her feet flat on the mattress, the blankets tented over them.

Her mind had been skirting around the very best part of it all.
She had allowed the memories to crowd into her mind the moment she awoke, but she had very deliberately kept the best for last so that she could give it her undivided attention. And even now she would think of that very best memory a bit at a time, keeping the very,
very
best, the very most glorious until last.

The Earl of Heyward
.

Even his name was lovely. So much lovelier than any other she knew. Poor Martha was smitten by Mr. Griddles. And if that name were not bad enough in itself, there was his first name. What parents would inflict the name
Gregory
upon a poor baby when his last name was
Griddles
? But that was precisely what his parents had done.

The Earl of Heyward was
Edward
. Edward Ailsbury.

His conversation was sensible. He had participated in every topic of discussion without trying to dominate any, and he had expressed his opinions even when they had conflicted with someone else’s—and yet he had listened courteously to those other opinions. He was obviously fond of his family. He had taken Lady Heyward for a stroll while Angeline danced with Cousin Leonard. And he had looked a little sheepish when Mrs. Lynd, while talking briefly about her children, had said that her youngest, as well as Lady Heyward’s daughter and Lady Overymyer’s three, would grow fat before summer came if her brother kept taking them to Gunter’s for ices.

“But what are uncles for, Alma,” he had asked, “if not to spoil their nieces and nephews horribly before taking them home to their parents?”

“And you have promised to take all five of them to the Tower of London next week, Edward,” Lady Overmyer had added. “Is that not a little rash of you?”

“Probably,” he had agreed. “I shall enforce good behavior by threatening to forgo the ices on the way home.”

They had all laughed, and Angeline had stored in her heart the image of Lord Heyward as a doting uncle.

But the very best part could be postponed no longer. Her memory was fairly bursting with it. She wiggled her toes against the mattress and closed her eyes.

He had kissed her.

She had kissed him.

Her very first kiss.

He had taken her off the main avenue, where everyone else was walking, and had found a quiet, enchanted little clearing into which moonlight poured—so much more romantic after all than the lamps—and he had kissed her once, then drawn her right into his arms and kissed her again.

Oh, it had been
nothing
like anything she had ever expected a kiss to be. She had always wondered what her lips would feel like when being kissed and what the man’s would feel like. She had wondered how she would breathe. She could not remember breathing
at all
, but she supposed she must have done so or she would be dead.

She could not even remember clearly what her lips had felt like, or his. For a kiss had proved to be far more than just a touching of lips. Their whole bodies had been involved, their whole
beings
. Oh, goodness, as soon as his lips had touched hers for the second time, his mouth had opened and so had hers—and he had pressed his tongue into her mouth. It sounded shocking if it was put into words. But she was thinking more in remembered sensations than in words.

Her insides had turned to a sort of aching jelly. Her legs had felt weak. She had been throbbing in a place to which she could not put a name. And their bodies had been pressed together. He had been all hard-muscled, solid, unfamiliar masculinity and familiar cologne, and she had clasped him to her with arms that strained to draw him even closer. But how much closer could he have got short of removing a few layers of clothes? The very thought of
that
reminded Angeline of how hot that clearing had seemed for the few minutes of their embrace. As though someone had lit a fire and piled on a forest of kindling and a ton of coal.

His one hand had been spread—oh, dear—over her bottom. The other had come beneath one of her breasts and closed about it.

It was surely the most startlingly glorious first kiss anyone had
ever experienced. Not that she was interested in anyone else for the moment.

It had been the very best experience of her life. She could not imagine that anything in her life could exceed it. Ever. Except that she had wanted it to go on and on forever, and of course it had not.

And the dear man had apologized afterward.

As if he had somehow taken advantage of her. As if he had somehow
compromised
her. He had even said so. A lady’s honor could not be compromised if there was no one there to see, could it?

Indeed it could
, said Miss Pratt’s voice in her head, at its most severe.
A lady must always be a perfect lady, even in the privacy of her own boudoir
.

Which was about the most stupid of many stupid pronouncements Miss Pratt had made.

She had told him it was her first kiss. She had told him it was wonderful. Perhaps she ought not to have said either thing. She must have sounded very naive. But why not? Why pretend to be worldly-wise and jaded when one was not? She had begged him to tell her he was not really sorry, and he had admitted it was a lovely evening.

Lovely
was an understatement. For she had made perhaps the most wonderful discovery of all last night. Lord Heyward was a very proper, serious-minded gentleman to whom courtesy and reason and good sense were more important than posturing and violence. But it could always be said that such men were dull. Tresham called him a dry old stick.

But
it was not so
.

She now knew
from personal experience
that such a man could also be passionate in his private dealings with the woman he loved. Very passionate indeed.

With the woman he loved
.

Angeline’s eyes were still closed. She wiggled her toes and opened her eyes at last. Was that who she was?
The woman he loved?
She must be. He could not possibly have kissed her like that if she was not. Could he?

She would see him again this evening. At least, she hoped she
would. There was Lady Hicks’s ball to attend, and apparently it was always one of the great squeezes of the Season.

Oh, surely he would be there too.

She threw back the bedcovers and swung her legs over the side of the bed to the floor. She had planned to walk in the park this morning with Martha and Maria—she had
so
much to tell them. It was still raining, of course, so that idea must be abandoned. But there were always shops just waiting to be shopped at, and there were tearooms where one might sit and talk with friends. She had far too much energy to remain at home merely waiting for this evening to come.

W
HEN
E
DWARD ARRIVED
at Dudley House later the same afternoon, he was shown into the library on the main floor while the butler went off to see if the Duke of Tresham was at home. Edward could not even allow himself the luxury of hoping he was not. Besides, he was almost sure Tresham would be here. He had been at the House earlier, as had Edward himself. He would certainly have returned home before going out for the evening.

Edward looked around at the shelves of books that lined the walls and wondered if Tresham ever as much as opened the cover of any of them. The large oak desk was clear apart from an inkpot and some quill pens on a blotter. Comfortable-looking leather winged chairs flanked the fireplace. A chaise longue was set at the other side of the room. One could not imagine Tresham spending much of his time in a library of all places.

He walked closer to the fireplace for the simple reason that he did not want to be found hovering just inside the door, looking as uncomfortable as he felt. But a man stood in front of his own hearth, not someone else’s. He changed direction and crossed to the window instead. He stood looking out.

He did not believe he had ever felt more depressed in his life. Or more purely embarrassed. He wished he were anywhere else on earth but where he actually was. On the opposite side of Grosvenor
Square he could see a maid cleaning off the boot scraper outside one door and found himself envying her her quiet, uncomplicated existence. Which was nonsense, of course. No one’s life was all quietness or lack of complications. It just seemed sometimes that someone else’s life—
everyone
else’s in this case—was preferable to one’s own.

As luck would have it, his mother and Lorraine had just been returning from a visit as he was leaving the house, bringing with them both his grandmother and Juliana, and they had all, of course, wanted to know where he was going all spruced up and freshly shaven.

“Oh, out,” he had said vaguely, kissing his mother and grandmother on the cheek.

“Take my word for it, Adelaide,” his grandmother had said, “there is a lady involved. Lady Angeline Dudley, I trust.”

“She was at Vauxhall with us last evening,” Juliana had said, smiling. Just as if his mother and grandmother had not already known that.

“I do hope you are not planning to take her driving in the park, though, Edward,” his mother had said, glancing out the hall window. “It is not actually raining again, but it is going to be at any moment. I do not at all like the look of those clouds. What a gloomy day it has been.”

“Perhaps,” his grandmother had said, waving her lorgnette in his direction as though conducting a symphony, “he is going to Dudley House to propose marriage to her, Adelaide. Did he dance with her at Vauxhall, Lorraine? Did he steal a kiss from her? Vauxhall is the very best place in London for stolen kisses. I still remember that. Ah, the memories.”

They had all laughed, and Lorraine’s face had turned an interesting shade of pink.

And they had forgotten to demand an answer to the question. Or had there been a question? Edward had escaped before any of them could remember it—or remember to ask it.

They would know soon enough.

He was dreading hearing the library door open behind him. He would hate it even more, though, if it were the
butler
who opened it with the news that His Grace was indeed from home. He would not have been shown into the library, though, if that were the case, would he?

Did the man always keep guests waiting so long? How long
had
he been waiting? It felt like an hour. It was probably no more than five or ten minutes. And then the door opened and he turned.

Tresham was looking very black-eyed. Why was it his eyes that one always noticed first? His eyebrows were also raised. His long fingers were curled about the handle of a quizzing glass. If he had the effrontery to lift it to his eyes …

He did not.

“Heyward,” he said, the hint of a sigh in his voice. “For a moment I was propelled back in time when my butler handed me your card. But then I remembered, alas, that
that
Heyward is no more. To what do I owe the pleasure? I hope my guess is not correct.”

Of course it was correct. And he could hardly have been more insolent if he had tried.

“I have come to ask for the hand of Lady Angeline Dudley,” he said.

This time the sigh was not hinted at. It was quite explicit. And it was not immediately accompanied by words.

“Have you?” Tresham said. “In marriage, I presume you mean. How very tedious of you. She will say no, you know.”

“Perhaps,” Edward said stiffly, “we may allow
her
to say it, Tresham. Or yes, as the case may be. I merely need your permission to pay my addresses to her. I would imagine my eligibility is self-evident, but I am quite prepared to give you details should you feel obliged to hear them.”

Tresham regarded him silently for a few moments before dropping his quizzing glass on its ribbon and making his way across the room to sit behind the empty desk.

“I do indeed insist that Lady Angeline say no for herself on such
occasions,” he said. “One would not wish to develop a reputation for being a tyrant of a brother, would one? But you would not have had the experience. Both your sisters were married before you inherited your title.”

He was not the first to offer for her, then, Edward thought. Of course, she had mentioned Exwich proposing to her, had she not? It was a great pity she had not accepted one of her other suitors, even if he could not in all conscience wish Exwich upon her. But such a thought was pointless.

“Do take a seat,” Tresham said, indicating a chair across the desk from his own with one indolent hand. “You will indeed convince me that you are an eligible suitor for Lady Angeline’s hand before I allow you to speak to her, Heyward.”

He was quite within his rights, of course. But surely almost any father or brother but Tresham would have left details of a marriage settlement to be worked out
after
the lady had said yes. Very well. Marriage settlements worked both ways. She must bring an acceptable dowry to the marriage. They would discuss that too.

Edward seated himself, quite determined not to appear an abject supplicant.

He looked the Duke of Tresham in the eye and raised his own eyebrows.

A
NGELINE HAD READ
the same page of the same book half a dozen times in the last half hour, and she
still
had not absorbed a word of it. It was Mr. Milton’s
Paradise Lost
and needed her full attention. It was a work of literature of which she believed Miss Goddard would approve. Not that she had seen that lady at all since her first visit to the library. If she had a chance to talk to the Earl of Heyward this evening
—if
?—she would mention it to him. She had already read six of the twelve books that comprised the work and had enjoyed them immensely. Miss Pratt had never let her read it because someone had once said in the governess’s hearing that Mr. Milton had
made Satan far more attractive than God. Angeline had been relieved at the time for it was a
very
long poem and she had never enjoyed reading poetry. But it was turning out to be fascinating.